


Stitch It Together

by wordsliketeeth



Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novels)
Genre: Asphyxiation, Biting, Bruises, Canon-Typical Violence, Consensual Abuse, Dom/sub, First Meetings, Marking, Mention of Farz/Vincent, Multi, Non-Explicit Sex, Obedience, Poetic, non-gender specific
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 10:54:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28919388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsliketeeth/pseuds/wordsliketeeth
Summary: You can still recall the fundamental shift of your relationship. It had been like a sudden slip on a fault, a steady build-up of pressure on both sides until the friction grew too great that the ground you stood on could no longer maintain calm. It was the beginning of some structural imbalance that would outdistance the grounds of playful banter and challenging digs. It was as though you were working out some intrinsic mission that began in the heart of Vincent's palm and ended in the closed shape of his fist.
Relationships: Vincent (Boyfriend to Death)/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





	Stitch It Together

Take it slow. Take it further. Ache. Repeat. Swallow the shame. Holy water. Drink it up. Numb the pain. Give up. Surrender. Stay asleep. Drink another. Break the chain.

It gets worse before it gets better.

Party with your fears. Dance in the dark. Hollow out your bones. Light a fire. Drive out the sparrows. Catch the darkness in your cup. Listen to the sirens. Drink it up.

It gets better before it gets worse.

Shed your skin. Dress up your empty head. Chase the moon. Run away. Hide in the shadows. Shatter your porcelain heart. Shuffle home. Dive in the deep. Drink it up. Fall apart.

Everything stays the same.

Get lost. Wax eloquence. Get found. Lose yourself. Bleed out. Sugar on the asphalt. Burn the cross. Salt sweat. Drink it up. Peel back your skin. Let him in. Push him out. Fall in love.

Nothing stays the same.

And while it sounds like a lot—convoluted, involved, _sensational_ —it all comes down to one thing. _One_ reason for the poetical expressions that shaped your year. A _sole_ being in the guise of a lone wolf; a sadistic monster with a curiously considerate conscience.

Vincent. Latin: _Vincentius_. Vincere. Meaning: to conquer; to win.

The first time you met him was in a ramshackle bar, its patrons as seedy as the establishment itself. You kept to yourself, tucked away in the corner of the smoky interior in a two-bit booth that needed more than new upholstery to save its withering condition. The floor was tacky beneath your feet, and while you wanted to believe you were sitting above some kind of booze-splash graveyard, you weren't so naive to sidestep less wholesome avenues.

Vincent, whom you hadn't known yet at the time, had been seen with a short, scrappy mess of a boy. He looked fragile, weak, but in a place like Route 66, it's foolish to judge a snake by its charms, so to speak. So you sat back in the corner you impermanently named your own and observed him, _them_ , at a distance.

The shorter one, with his unruly hair and sun-touched skin, had a bad habit of changing on a dime. He followed his taller companion like a dog tracks its owner, but everyone else occupying the bar was fair game.

On that first night, he punched a sloppy dipsomaniac in the face; on the second, he gutted a prostitute like a fish.

His name was Farz and he had a tumultuous relationship with Vincent. He loved birds, heights, and pain; and while the freckles that stippled his face spoke of the sun, and his green eyes shone like long stretches of morning meadows, he was as violent as a summer storm is unpredictable. He was chaos through and through; burning lungs and kerosene for blood. On the surface, his cuts were shallow but his hatred ran deeper than the deep blue sea, which was ironic considering his fear of water.

Last you heard, he lynched his mother and jumped a southbound train with a duffel bag of Vincent's belongings and a bloody wad of stolen cash.

Farz's timeline ran parallel to your own, albeit your paths crossed a time or two without intention, you were worlds apart. And it should have stayed that way. Yet, after a week spent at the bar, it was Farz's burgeoning hatred toward you that tipped you off—it was the envious allegory behind his gaze that confirmed your suspicions. He hated how much attention Vincent was giving you, _loathed_ how easily you kept up with _his_ lover after only a few drinks. But it wasn't so simple. Sure, he had jealousy in spades and he could hold a grudge like no other, but it was more than that. He was losing Vincent in a one-sided fight that he couldn't win, and defeat _terrified_ him. Additionally, he must have seen that you weren't even _trying_ , and while you weren't Farz's biggest fan, you're mature enough to admit that knowing as much must have stung.

You think now, with your legs tangled in too-warm bed sheets and Vincent's heart beating against your fingertips, that Farz would have stuck a knife in your back if he'd been given a chance. Not to mention, people will do crazy things for love, and while Farz didn't need the postscript of romance to fall under the umbrella of an unsound mind, his affection for Vincent only exacerbated the sickness—wherefore Vincent always intervened when Farz was around.

You can still recall the fundamental shift of your relationship. It had been like a sudden slip on a fault, a steady build-up of pressure on both sides until the friction grew too great that the ground you stood on could no longer maintain calm. It was the beginning of some structural imbalance that would outdistance the grounds of playful banter and challenging digs. It was as though you were working out some intrinsic mission that began in the heart of Vincent's palm and ended in the closed shape of his fist.

Thinking back, you should have seen it coming—it was red behind his eyes, but hindsight is 20/20. Back then, Vincent was counting his matches before he set fire to your sheets. You knew he was dangerous. No, he wasn't like Farz or the other wandering souls who prided themselves on drunken courage like indomitable creatures of the night. No. He was worse, so, _so_ much worse. But you were young and life was just a hopeless, trivial _thing_ that stood in your way. You were bored and alone and walking on eggshells sounded more exciting than chasing daylight in vain.

Winning Vincent was easy, but darkness was the prize.

The first time you slept together was like getting on a roller coaster that looked deceptively perfect for a thrill-seeking neophyte, only to find out that it was full of twists and turns, intense drops, and speeds that pushed at your physical limits. Your body was slick with sweat, your blood ran thick with adrenaline, and your heart had lodged itself in your throat. It was like an out-of-body experience, one that left you terrified but jumping right back in line to experience the rush all over again.

You can remember the way Vincent's mouth had quirked on an arrogant smile, his beer halfway to his lips when he said: “The fuck you looking at?”

You arched an eyebrow, knowing that a response would only fan the flames of his megalomania but wanting to get burned too badly to care. “Me?” You looked over your shoulders, right, then left, in a gesture of put-on perplexity before lifting them in the barest hint of a shrug. “The only thing I'm looking at is an emo-looking asshole with a few nasty scars. The fuck _you_ looking at?”

Vincent countered with a smirk in that vainglorious way that boasts self-righteousness like resplendent threads woven into a designer 3-piece he wouldn't be caught dead in. He strode forward like a predator stalking its prey, his tongue sweeping across his lips before catching on a particularly sharp canine. He had quite literally backed you into a corner before slamming his ragged knuckles against the wall beside your head. “I'm looking at a piece of _meat_ , princess. A wall of flesh that needs to be tenderized, fucked, and _devoured_.”

“Remind me to never eat at your place,” you responded smartly.

“What makes you think that you'll ever have the luxury of goin' back to my place?” Vincent asked you, his breath ghosting over your damp, soft lips.

“What makes you think that going back to your place is a luxury?”

There was a flash of something that flickered through the shadows swamping his gaze, and you wondered if you pushed too hard against his pull, but then Vincent pressed his lips against yours hard enough to bruise. He kissed you in the same way you imagined he had sex— _little did you know_ —dirty, heated, rough, _desperate_. You had conceded, kissing him back with just as much force, notwithstanding the flagrancy of your state for every love-drunk patron to witness.

When he licked into your mouth it was with lovesickness that rearranged your thinking. He tilted your axis, broke your thoughts beyond repair, and claimed your center of gravity as his own. He kissed you like he wanted it to hurt and you focused on the pain because, contrarily, it helped heal a part buried deep inside of you that you didn't know needed healing until that very moment. One kiss had pulled you apart and put you back together like a concurrent drift—beneath the stains of time laid parts of you that had long been lost, and it was alarming how easily Vincent had unearthed them.

“I should fuck you right here, teach you a lesson. You have a smart mouth and someone needs to teach you how to use it.” Vincent bit down on your lower lip and sucked on it until the tender tissue began to swell.

“And you think that you're the right person for the job?” You slid one hand along the prominent line of his hip bone, up to the divots of his abdomen, the other fisting a hand in the collar of his tank top so you could drag him down for another kiss. “I think you're too arrogant for your own good.” You slotted your lips against his own, and the kiss that followed was angry and messy, and you could feel Vincent grinning into it.

“It takes two to tango, baby,” he said into your mouth when you parted. He pushed you harder against the wall and you let the structure support your head as he mouthed at your neck, painting long, wet kisses along the thrum of your pulse. The cool edges of his teeth grazed your skin before he bit down against your jugular, not hard enough to break skin but firm enough to bruise. The silver stud on his tongue dragged hard against your quickening pulse and you shivered almost violently under the pleasurable sensation.

You slid your fingers through Vincent's hair and pulled him in closer. “I don't remember saying anything about wanting to _dance_.”

“Denying that you want this would be a waste of time, kitten. I can smell how wet you are through your clothes.”

The expression of utter certainty on his face coupled with the smugness in his tone was infuriating enough, but these things had paled in comparison to the thing that irritated you the most, and that was: he was right. You were consumed by arousal; you wore desire in your bones and your head was soaked with salacious visions that all traced back to what you and Vincent could be doing instead of frittering your time away at a catchpenny bar. And while making him wait seemed fun enough, your need for _more_ had outdistanced every other option on the table.

Which is how you found yourself in an extremely utilitarian apartment not twenty minutes later, stripped down to bare skin and covered in bruises that would drastically darken by the following day. You were quick to learn that Vincent's hedonism came with all the instincts of animalism and that there was no distinction between physicality and impulsivity. Where there was pleasure, there was pain. Every kiss tasted sweet but came with a piquancy that might be calmed by tenderness or made violent by anger. Where Vincent was soft, he was two times as hard. Every gentle caress was followed by a harsh point of contact: the close of teeth on a bite, the scratch of nails against skin, the press of fingerprints in the guise of a too-strong embrace.

Vincent had fucked you with the kind of intensity met by the red summer sun, like a foretoken of the days to follow. It was bittersweet, not wholly unexpected but startling all the same. It was akin to having a First Aid Kit but ignoring it in favor of bleeding out; because if the alternative meant not getting to experience the unfamiliar pleasures Vincent subjected you to, then you would rather go out with a bang. And this should have, unequivocally, been nothing more than an indirect nudge to an age-old idiom, but you knew that Vincent would be the gun that blew your brains out, should you let him, should you stay. You knew it then and you know it now.

Even with this knowledge, however, you found that you're not much different from a poet that seasons the caustic leaves as means to incite a reaction. There's something to be said for stoking the fire of sovereignty in someone so unhinged. You wanted to see Vincent in the bright of his best and the shade of his worst. You longed to push him to the extreme, even after he pulled a knife on you for no reason whatsoever and pressed it to your throat as he spilled himself to completion on the low of your abdomen.

You had been alarmed when you had the chance to process everything that had happened. Though, thinking back on it now, perhaps you shouldn't have been. It had been no different than the blinding flash of the premonition born of instinct you felt when you first met—the unmistakable, underlying threat that turned to electricity on your skin. Vincent hadn't exactly hidden his true colors, he just hadn't had a chance to display all of them until you found yourself in his bed. He was a full-blown spectrum, only that the aftermath of spring rains had hidden the lion's share of his darkest colors behind dense and heavy clouds. Meeting Vincent was, in itself, like an omen, like frost is a harbinger of winter.

Meeting Vincent was the best and the worst thing to happen to you.

It was a life lesson, of sorts. A pivotal moment that changed you forever. In the beginning, had you had the foresight, or perhaps, the _willingness_ to fully consider what you were getting into, you would have acknowledged the danger you were in. Presently, however, you have somehow managed to garner Vincent's trust, and in turn, you feel confident that you can put your faith in him. You feel no need to overlook the constellations of contusions that mottle your flesh in the name of fear. You embrace the cold edge of Vincent's favorite knife against your skin, the sharp catch of leather against the swells of your flesh when you push your limits against the side of punishment. You long for the dig of his steel-toed boot against the small of your back, the scratch of his calloused palm when his hand makes contact with your cheek. You beg for the sting and the pain and the ache. You plead for pleasure and permission and his praise. You solicit his attention in the form of a prayer because Vincent is the only religion that will ever truly matter to you.

When he tells you to wrap your fingers around your throat and squeeze until the gray behind your eyes spills into black, you do so without question until he allows you to breathe again. When he shoves you to the floor with what could easily be read as murderous intent, if you didn't know better, spit on his fingers and blood between his teeth, you submit to the salty channels of verbal humiliation, redolent of the sea during the hours of ebb. When he fucks you like it's the last thing he'll do, you give yourself up to him with a martyr's devotion because Vincent, hallowed in your eyes, is the only sacred ground you're willing to die on.

Vincent is your master and you are his slave—a willing servant from the ties of his affection to the bones of his cruel and sadistic nature. You wear his love for you on your body in the shape of his fingertips, in the silver studs he's pushed through your skin, in the uneven indentations of his teeth cut into your flesh. And while all of this would have terrified you months ago, you have come to understand that this is what you _need_ , what you've been missing in your life. Even when Vincent tells you that you're in too deep, that you've gotten in over your head, it's not enough to drive you out of the rocky waters you've landed yourself in.

In reality, the best way to learn how not to drown is to stay afloat, and battling for life amidst the waves of Vincent's dangerous love for you has only taught you how to swim. And what good is solid ground when you can cut through his bloodstream like a fish in the sea? 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
